


An Evening with Chris Lightfellow

by Quicksilver_ink



Category: Suikoden III
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-23
Updated: 2004-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 07:18:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilver_ink/pseuds/Quicksilver_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Lightfellow spends an evening at home after returning to the capitol to report to the Council about the Tinto–Zexen border war. A character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chris left the Council room seething. They knew full well that her men faced trained soldiers – Tinto's regular army, no less – on the southeastern front, and not mere bands of seasonal bandits as they claimed. What was the point of pretending they weren't at war?

 _'Amassing greater numbers so close to the border might be construed as hostile', my foot_ , Chris thought savagely as she stomped down the stairs, her footfalls dissatisfyingly muted by the carpet. _We must be facing the better half of Tinto's army already. I don't see how things could be much worse if they_ did _officially declare war._ A bitter smile rose on her face at the thought. That, if nothing else, would force the Council to see reason and give her the men she needed. She had fewer than half that at the moment.

Damned lot of fat-bellied paper-pushers playing at Goddess only knew what while her forces were being slowly ground down by superior numbers. And they had the gall to rebuke her for it.

The building seemed even drearier than usual; the white plaster walls and thick carpets seemed to be sucking up all the air. She nodded curtly at the marshals who opened doors for her as she made her way quickly out of the building. She couldn't quite manage a smile or thanks, but they did at least deserve acknowledgement. It wasn't their fault their masters – her masters, too, as she'd been forcefully reminded - were so infuriating. And standing door duty commanded little enough respect as it was, Chris knew; she'd taken her turn at the leg-cramping pastime as a cadet.

It was a relief to step out into the open square, where the laughter of children playing in the square and the cascade of the fountain made a welcome contrast to the officious silence that held sway in the building. She thought she saw a familiar face or two among a group playing ball, but only ordinary curiosity and awe shone in the children's expressions.

Although it wasn't yet suppertime, there weren't many people out on the streets. A well-dressed merchant hurrying towards the docks, a group of older women gossiping in front of a house, and a few other pairs and individuals on their way somewhere. Caught up in their own lives, none of them seemed to desire more than a smile and a nod from Zexen's lady hero, and she reached home unaccosted. This was just as well; right now she didn't trust herself to hold a civil conversation with a stranger.

The garden gate swung closed behind her with a familiar wrenching creak, and a light in one of the front rooms dimmed. Someone had been waiting for that sound, and was headed to the front door to greet her. Remembrance relaxed Chris's frown to a thoughtful line; she and her mother had often waited in that same room, listening for her father's return. They'd meet him at the door, and he'd embrace her mother, and then her. They'd retire to the parlor, sometimes, and if it wasn't too warm, her father would call for hot tea…

Hot tea, she decided, her hand on the door. Hot tea, a bath, and perhaps after supper, she'd read a book for a bit, to quiet her mind. Not reports, not paperwork, but an actual book. Maybe then, her mind at ease, she'd be able to sort out the Council's nonsense. Dinner, too, was something to look forward to; it might even have vegetables in it. There would be soft white bread instead of hard flat slabs so blackened she sometimes wondered if she'd been given a lump of charcoal instead. And she'd retire early, to a real bed. After a few months at the front, regularly covered in dust and sleeping on a pallet, she looked forward to these quiet pleasures and luxuries of civilization.

She opened the door and stepped into the softly lit foyer to be immediately welcomed by the two most senior servants: her butler Andrew le Beurre, and the housekeeper. Not that there were many needed to maintain the family manse, with only one Lightfellow remaining. After exchanging greetings and informing them of her plans for the evening and her departure the next morning, Chris ascended the stairs to her room, to wash and change for dinner.

The bath was everything she had hoped it would be. Muscles she hadn't realized were tight unknotted in the warm water, and her frustration with the Council washed away with the dirt. The porcelain tub was a bit cramped, especially compared to the large public bathhouses, but Chris treasured the solitude it afforded. Privacy was another luxury mostly absent in a war camp.

Afterwards, comfortably wrapped in a dressing gown, Chris sat on a stool by the fire while Molly brushed out her hair. It wasn't a very tall stool; now that she was grown, her feet easily reached the floor. There had been a time when they hadn't, though, and she would swing her legs impatiently as Molly – then her nursemaid, now her lady's maid – gently brushed her hair.

Both her hair and legs were longer now, but so was her patience. She no longer bent her head forward or back to escape the brush, nor took off as soon as she was out of the bath, running on a five-year-old's chubby legs and dripping all over the room. Instead she sat still while Molly tackled the snarls. There were more of these, too, than there had been when she was younger.

"You ought to wear your hair down more often, milady," the older woman told her as she pulled the boar-bristle brush through damp tangles. It tickled against Chris's scalp. "It suits you better than having it pinned up in braids."

They'd had this discussion often before; it was nearly ritual. "It won't stay under my helmet if I wear it down."

"Of course I didn't mean when you were away fighting. I meant when you're home." The brush stopped. "Not that you're home much these days, milady," the woman continued rebukingly, and attacked another tangle.

"Tinto's keeping us busy." A few years ago, she would have said Grassland. Before that, the training master.

"Your mother often wore hers down, you know," Molly continued. "Especially when she was younger. The other young ladies would tell her it wasn't fashionable any longer – and she'd retort that long hair never went out of fashion."

Chris closed her eyes; the gentle tug at her hair was soothing.

"She was right, of course. It made her very popular with the young gentlemen, although she had only eyes for your father. People didn't think much of him at that time, either – he was just foreigner who came to stay with the Lightfellow family. And by the time he became Captain and everyone realized what a catch he was, he was already married to your mother." Chris felt the older woman take careful hold of a length of hair, and heard the clatter of the brush being set down. Molly's next words were accompanied by the musical pinging of a comb's teeth as they came free of a snarl. "Their engagement was quite the seven-days'-wonder. The only daughter of the prestigious Lightfellow family and a foreigner so common he didn't even have a last name! But for all that, their courtship was a proper one. They were never without a chaperone, and he did all the proper things – he asked your grandfather's permission just to court her. And of course there were the letters he wrote her!"

Molly sighed contentedly, as she always did here, and Chris felt her drop the section she'd been holding. "Such scandalous things! Nothing improper of course, but young men do let their hearts run away with their head and their pens. We all giggled and teased her at the time – I was with your family even then, milady, although I was but the youngest maid, and Lady Anna always was the sort to include us in her life and ask us for counsel." Normally Molly was still sighing at this point, her tone as much a part of the ritual as her words, but this time Chris caught just the faintest note of rebuke in her voice.

"But they were quite kind letters. Very tender, your father always was towards her." A stroke of the comb whispered gently through drying hair, but the next cut rudely into the familiar ritual as Chris leaned back from the pull of comb caught on snarl. "Even after they were married, he always said such sweet things to her. Just pulling her chair out for her at dinner, he'd often bend over and whisper some compliment or sweeting to her."

Molly sighed again; she clearly found that quite romantic. Privately Chris thought such behavior might get rather tiresome, especially if there was something more important to discuss. Then again, her parents had never had work in common – her mother had been a knight's daughter but never a soldier herself. It was doubtful that they had discussed squad assignments or a squire's investiture at the table.

"Your mother was always tickled by that," Molly continued as she always had, comb exchanged for the brush again. "And every time he came home from fighting, after dinner, she'd tell me, 'Oh, Molly, he still says the sweetest things to me. I'm so glad the war hasn't turned him ungentle.' She did worry so when he was gone, because that was the part of his life where he had the greatest burdens, and where she could do nothing for him."

There was more to the ritual, more about her parents, if her hair was still tangled, but the brushing stopped, so Chris rose from her seat. "Thank you, Molly."

"You know, milady…" Molly returned the brush and comb to Chris's washstand. "I rather miss those evenings when your parents – and you, of course – would dine together. This house has been empty for so long."

"I'm afraid it's going to be empty for quite a while longer," Chris said, reaching for her chemise. "I'm only here for this night, and then it's back to the front. And the Council refused my request for calling more soldiers…" She could feel herself tensing again, just at the thought of the Council, and yanked the undershirt over her head roughly. "I have no idea how long this war is going to last."

"It was nice last winter, when Lords Borus and Salome would come to visit," Molly said reflectively. "You ought to have invited them over more often."

"Yes, that was nice, wasn't it." Why did the Council refuse to listen to her? Chris fumbled with her stays, her mind only half on the task. They knew, they _had_ to know, what the situation out there was like. Getting them to approve returning the fifth and seventh infantry units this spring had been like pulling teeth, and they'd almost not granted her Percival and his cavalry company…

"You know, milady, no one will think it odd if you were to invite Lord Borus – or the pair of them - over for a purely social visit when you're home next time," Molly suggested. "You needn't wait until there's knights' business to discuss."

"A purely social visit?" Chris blinked, mind still on the Council and hands still struggling with her stays. "Oh, I see. I didn't really mind that they were for work." Her consternation grew as it became clear that her stays weren't going to fit properly. It was too loose in back, and the boning seemed warped. Surely two months wasn't long enough to forget what civilian clothes felt like.

"It's done up in the back," Molly said helpfully, just as Chris realized she'd had the thing on backwards. "I've got your others airing out, for your return."

Turning so Molly could lace up the canvas bodice for her, Chris quietly took a deep breath, only to let it out in a sharp gasp when the maid slapped her across the rump.

"I know that trick of yours, milady," the older woman said reprovingly, cutting off her outcry. "I may be a city woman, but I've a cousin who knows horses, and they do the same if they don't want their saddle so tight."

Chris decided to salvage her remaining dignity by not answering, since that was exactly where she'd gotten the idea.

Molly wasn't done rebuking her. "You'll develop a slouch if your stays are too loose, you know. I suppose there's nothing to be done if you've got to be swinging a sword all over the place, but when you're home safe, there's really no reason to let it slide." She emphasized her words by pulling the laces tighter. Chris grunted.

"There we go." Molly thumped her gently between the shoulder blades. "And don't pull faces at me. They aren't that tight, milady, nowhere near the things young ladies wear for fashion. And you're thinner these days. Don't they feed you properly in that army of yours?"

So that was what this was about. "I get the same as the others," Chris replied as she shrugged on a blouse. "And there's plenty, even if it is half beans. We're short on men, not rations." She tried to smile. "We haven't had many casualties, either – most of our engagements are too brief for that. There's nothing to fret about, Molly."

Molly sighed, a very different sigh from her sentimental nostalgia earlier. "I suppose not, milady."


	2. Chapter 2

At dinner, Chris thought Molly might have a point about the empty dining room. It was early enough in the year that the sky was already growing dark, and the single candelabra that stood at her end of the table was not bright enough to bring out the warm lines of the wood paneling. The fine tablecloth that would glow in the morning sun was bone-white where the candlelight touched it, and the empty chairs were emphatically so. The hot food cheered her somewhat, but her mind kept returning to the Council, and it would have been nice to have someone to discuss the matter with now, while it was fresh in her mind.

Why did they balk at admitting this was an actual war? she wondered, frowning at a spoonful of potatoes au gratin. The cheese oozing off the edge of the spoon offered no insight. Only one of the Council was up for re-election within the guild any time soon, so it couldn't be concern over public opinion.

Councilman Urran's argument about respecting foreign sovereignty was nonsense when it was Tinto doing the invading and the armies were fighting largely within Zexen's borders. Granted, the numbers they faced weren't indicative of a full-scale invasion. She took another spoonful and chewed thoughtfully. At three times – or even twice – the current muster, Zexen would have little difficulty driving them back, and there would be men to spare to protect the trade caravans. Not that she expected the Council would care – they were top men in the guild, all able to afford Grassland guides and Dunan tariffs for the more northern continental routes. It was the smaller-scale merchants and traders from outside of Zexen who were feeling the pinch, with their main artery of trade cut off.

But it still didn't make any sense to insist she fight them with such a small force. More lives would be lost that way, and it would cost Zexen more to maintain a smaller border force for an indeterminate number of years than a large one for the month they ought to be able to finish things in.

It was almost as if they wanted to prolong the fighting.

By the time she finished dinner, she'd turned everything over in her head twice, but despite a nagging suspicion there was something obvious she'd missed, she was no better off than when she'd started. Maybe Salome would be able to make something of it, when she got back to the front.

She retired to the sitting room with a volume of poetry, and was finally granted her wish of hot tea. The first sip scalded her tongue; with a grimace, she returned the cup to its saucer on the table.

The leather cover was still shiny and stiff, the gold leaf decorating the binding hardly dimmed. She'd received the book as a Winterstide gift from Leo of all people, several years back, but had only read it once before repeatedly misplacing it. Now she thumbed through the still-crisp pages, skimming the printed text for a poem to suit her mood. The majority seemed to be about beauty and its brevity, death and its permanence, or love having either quality. At another time, this would have been fine, but tonight the second drew her mind back to the war she'd be shortly returning to, and she felt impatient with the sentimentality of the others.

A snatch of verse caught her eye. _What could have made her peaceful with a mind/That nobleness made simple as a fire._ That was intriguing, but to her dismay, the opening lines proved it was just another variation on the inescapable poetic trio.

The title of the following poem seemed much more in the vein of what she was looking for – "The Lake Isle Of Innisfree."

Chris sank back into the pile of decorative pillows on the stiff-backed sofa, book in one hand and her teacup, pleasantly warm against her fingers, in the other.

 _I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,  
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:  
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,  
And live alone in the bee-loud glade._

 _And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,  
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;  
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,  
And evening full of the linnet's wings._

 _I will arise and go now, for always night and day  
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;  
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,  
I hear it in the deep heart's core. _

It was too early for crickets or cicadas, so in the silence of the evening Chris found it easy to draw up memories from three years ago. The ship had been most firmly aground, and even at high tide the lake reached nowhere near the wrecked hull. They wouldn't have quartered even the lowest soldiers there otherwise, let alone the Captain of the Zexen Knights. But sometimes, as she lay half-awake in her stiff bed, she'd almost thought she could hear the soft slap of wave against wood, and felt, as sleep came for her, a gentle sway like a rocking-horse that she dreamed was the ship at sea.

Footsteps creaking on the settled wood of the hall floor broke her reverie. The characteristic crisp knock of her butler was unexpected at this time of evening, so Chris bid him enter with more curiosity than irritation at the interruption.

"There's visitor here to see you, milady," the aging man informed her. "A young lady. I know you did not wish to be disturbed, but I did not wish to simply send her away at this hour. She begs an audience with you."

So much for the rest of the evening being quiet. "Send her here; there's no need to have Molly turn out the parlor if it's not business. Did she say what she wanted?"

"Merely that she wished to speak with you."

Chris frowned, trying to think who would even know she was back in Vinay del Zexay. "Bring her here, then."

The butler soon returned, followed by a woman who seemed a little older than Chris, blond hair visible under her lappet cap. Strong eyes and a high forehead gave her figure character rather than conventional beauty; her face would have been slightly hawkish if not for her round nose and the gentle curve of her mouth. Her clothes were fine, with subtle lace trim and full skirts. They were clothes made of good material, but not overly ornate, nor stylishly fitted; the woman was extremely pregnant.

"Lady Rachel Harras," Andrew announced.

Chris's eyebrows flew up, but she hastily composed her expression. Or tried to. It was difficult; embarrassment and guilt pricked at her like needles, and she couldn't quite bring herself to meet the eyes of the other woman. Salome Harras, her right arm, friend, and closest confident for the past three years, was a married man.

And she'd had absolutely no idea.

She'd never even thought to ask, simply assumed he was unmarried, because he'd never spoken of a fiancée or wife in the eight years she'd known him, and no one else had referred to him having one. She'd never noticed him wear a wedding band either, although of course now she couldn't remember how often she'd actually seen him with his gloves off.

Well, courtesy demanded she say _something_ , and, "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you existed" was hardly acceptable. Thankfully the appropriate manners were more or less automatic, even after months in a war camp. "Please sit down, Lady Harras. I'll ring for more tea, if you like. What can I do for you?"

"Oh, no tea, thank you, Lady Lightfellow." The woman sat down carefully. Her bearing remained dignified despite her awkward stature. "I'll be brief. It's about my husband."

Her husband. Chris nodded in what she hoped was an encouraging manner.

"Perhaps it's in appropriate of me, but might I ask you a personal favor?" Rachel's voice was soft and unpleading.

Personal favors. Chris's mind stumbled past the awkward notion of Salome being married to the social niceties one owed a friend's spouse. She'd have to get a christening gift somehow; it was bad enough she'd already slighted the woman – and Salome – by leaving her out of invitations and holiday greetings, never mind simply failing to occasionally ask her second-in-command how his wife was doing.

The question needed more than a nod as an answer. Social manners came to the rescue again; Chris hoped any stiffness would be construed as formality. "I can't promise anything without knowing what the favor is, but you may certainly ask, Lady Harras."

The other woman nodded. "Despite what the Council is telling everyone, I do know there's a war going on, and that you need every man you have, from blacksmith to commander. But would you be able to spare him for a short time? Just long enough to return home for a week or so." She put a hand on her belly. "I know it's perhaps a bit unfair of me to expect it; there are plenty of other women, I'm sure, in my same situation. And I wouldn't ask if I thought you wouldn't be fair." She spoke evenly, her expression neutral but not hopeful.

Chris closed her eyes and sipped her tea mechanically, not really tasting it. It felt like the bottom of her stomach had dropped out and the tea was just spilling down into some empty, endless pit. Of course this would be about sending him home to welcome his child into the world; the only reason she hadn't been deluged with such requests from other soldiers' wives was because no one knew she was in the city today, besides the Council. And Salome's wife, it seemed.

 _Salome's lady wife._

"…Captain Lightfellow?"

Chris set down her teacup with a decisive clatter of china. "Of course, Lady Harras. I'll see to it that your husband takes some of his leave-time to visit you, if I have to order him away from his books to do it."

Rachel looked momentarily stunned, then her face lit up. Her eyebrows lifted and her mouth spread into a small smile; Chris was put very much in mind of Salome in one of his amiable moods. "Oh, thank you, Captain. Bless you."

"Think nothing of it, Lady Harras. Your… your husband has served Zexen above and beyond the call of duty; it's time we gave something back to him." She glanced up at the window, willing the last stains of orange and red from the blackening sky. "It's getting quite dark. Shall I have someone see you home?"

It seemed Rachel didn't hear any impatience in her voice, or else forgave it; her smile was too sincere. "I appreciate that, but I brought my own escort. I believe he's in the kitchen doing some visiting of his own."

Chris called for Andrew to bring Rachel her coat and bonnet, and to retrieve the woman's footman. As he went to retrieve the other woman's things, Chris decided to take her leave.

"Take care, Lady Harras," she said, rising. "I'll be sure to congratulate Salome, and order him back home when I see him next."

"I beg your pardon?"

Chris shrugged awkwardly; she owed the woman an explanation for her inadvertent rudeness over the years. "My vice-captain has always been rather reticent on the subject of his family, but I must confess I had no idea that he was married, or going to be a father."

Rachel laughed. "He's not."

Chris stared at her. "He's not?"

"No, he's not. Salome's my brother. I'm sorry, I thought you knew! No wonder you seemed so... surprised when I was announced." She smiled gently, and Chris felt her face grow red. The other woman hadn't missed her reaction at all.

Rachel went on. "My husband's from a lesser merchant family, and by the time we were engaged it was clear Salome wasn't going to be continuing the family line, so Theo took my last name when we married."

Chris sat back down, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, can we start over? Your husband is...?"

"Theodore Harras. He's a clerk, keeping books for the quartermaster."

"Hmm..." Chris tried to summon a mental image of the quartermaster's staff. "Theodore…Theodore… tall, thin, gives you sour looks if you come in for replacement equipment more than once in a month if the quartermaster's not there to do it for you? That Theodore?" Chris shook her head in wonder. "No wonder Salome gets along with him better than I do, if they're brothers-in-law."

"Yes, that would be my husband," Rachel said fondly; she didn't seem at all offended by Chris's less-than-flattering description. "Theo's actually got a better sense of humor than you've probably had a chance to encounter from him. Or would be able to trace back to him. He's pretty careful about that sort of thing."

"…wait, don't tell me _he_ was the one responsible for those ridiculous plumed helms last year?" Chris asked. A smile twitched at the corners of her lips. "The entire third infantry looked like chickens. We all thought someone had made a mistake in placing an order or two."

Rachel smiled proudly. "That's my Theo."

"Well, Lady Harras-"

"Please, just Rachel is fine. Lady Harras is my mother. Or a title that belongs to the wife my brother doesn't have."

Chris coughed, and she was almost certain there was a gleam in the other woman's eye. "As I was saying, Lady Rachel, I'll have to check with the quartermaster, but I'll see what I can do about sending him home to you in time. Although, to be honest… I wish I could send your brother home for a bit, as well." Rachel grinned openly at this, and Chris returned the smile tentatively. "I meant it when I said Zexen owes him some time off. I don't believe Salome's taken more than a day of rest since he left Vinay del Zexay, and that only because there was nothing to do except for wait for word from the front. I can't afford to do without him at this point… although I can't afford to have him collapse on me either."

"What about yourself, Lady Chris? From my brother's letters, I get the impression you don't take much time for yourself, either. I doubt Zexen can afford to lose you."

"Hah." Chris snorted. "Early on in my captaincy, I pushed myself a bit too hard and collapsed on the way to a Council meeting." She looked faintly irritated "I know better than to let that happen now, but even if I didn't, no one would even give me the chance. Borus _hovers_. The maids drown me in herbal tea if I so much as sneeze, Louis is a knight now but still acts like he's my attendant, and Salome... well, he's actually the best of them all, but he does fuss sometimes. Well, not precisely fuss –he's Salome, after all-"

Rachel looked amused. "But he does have a tendency to quietly arrange things so that you wind up taking a break, or doing whatever else it is that he wants you to do. And by the time you realize that's what he's doing, he's already talked you into it."

Chris nodded. "Yes, exactly. And the worst part is, he's always right in the end. I probably wouldn't have gone off to look for my father if he hadn't encouraged me, and, well…"

"That was during the last war, wasn't it? Just after you'd become captain?"

 _The 'last war'. Has it really been so long?_ "I see Salome keeps you well informed."

"Well..." Rachel shrugged a little. "The Harras family motto is practically that. 'Be Informed.' It's in the blood. And while most of Zexen paid little mind to that conflict once Durram resigned, my brother was directly involved. Naturally I was curious."

Footsteps and a knock signaled the return of the butler. Rachel's footman and outdoor things were ready, if she would be so good as to come to the foyer?

"Please give my regards to my brother," Rachel as Chris saw her to the door. "And thank you ever so much for granting Theo some leave."

"That's still up to the quartermaster, but I'll do what I can," Chris assured her. "Take care, Lady Rachel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The isolated lines of poetry come from "No Second Troy," by William Butler Yeats; "The Lake Isle Of Innisfree" printed in full is by the same. Text obtained from www dot online-literature dot com; to the best of my understanding both works are in the public domain.


	3. An Evening with Chris Lightfellow

There was no ritual associated with preparing for bed; Chris's life had changed too much for any pattern to stabilize. Fairy stories had lost their magic when she'd lost her mother, and the grueling training of her adolescent years had often left her too exhausted to do much besides shed her clothes and collapse. War imposed its own schedule, so during peacetime Chris relished the opportunity for something unstructured, varying her bedtime and her evening habits as the whim took her.

Tonight, she'd dressed for bed first, and now she sat at her dressing table while Molly brushed and braided her hair. Nothing was said for some time; the two women each left the other to her own thoughts, although sometimes Chris heard Molly sigh and wondered.

"You know, milady," Molly told her suddenly. "It's quite inspiring to see how calm you are about returning to the front. I don't know how I'd manage such tranquility, with only inhospitable camps and dangerous fighting to look ahead to, and things back here to worry about as well. And how do you bathe properly around all those men?"

 _I don't,_ Chris thought unhappily, but knew Molly wouldn't like to hear that answer. "It's simply the way of things. As a knight, I do what I need to in order to protect Zexen. Actually, I'd probably go mad if I had to stay here, unable to do anything, while there's fighting going on."

"That's the way of things for a woman of Vinay del Zexay," Molly reminded her. "And we fret-"

"- Because we soldiers don't," Chris finished with her, and chuckled a little. "You've said that before."

Molly set aside the brush and began braiding. "Your mother said it before me. Not that you don't have your own things to fret about, of course. But someone needs to take care of things here."

Chris nodded; the Council loomed in the back of her mind, threatening the peace the evening had brought her. But politics and war were games played largely by men, at least in Zexen. As a knight, her worries were a strange distance from those of other women, with their households to manage and families to care for.

She abandoned the thought with a shake of her head, evoking a cluck of dismay from Molly, who'd lost the strands of the braid.

"I don't mean to speak out of turn, milady, but would you like for me to arrange a naming gift for Mrs. Harras's child? You'll no doubt be gone during that time, and she is your vice-captain's kin."

Chris winced. It seemed everyone knew more about Salome's family than she did. "What do you suggest?"

"It ought to be something nice. Silver cups are a favorite - that's what the Harras family gave you." Molly tied off the braid. "Or perhaps something more practical?"

"Either would be fine. I'll trust it to you, Molly." Rachel and her inherited taste for knowledge – did she keep track of the politics of the Council? She had a household to manage and, soon, a child to busy herself with. But, Chris realized, that didn't exclude her from participating in other spheres. She could easily see the woman trading news with Salome.

Something landed on her head, and she looked up, blinking at the silvered glass before her. A pale woman with handkerchief folded neatly across the top of her head blinked at her. The drape of the cloth and the angle of the mirror hid most of her hair, and shadows from the flickering light of the oil lamp made her face thin and her features delicate and strange. It was someone other than Chris Lightfellow looking back from the mirror.

"I look like an invalid housewife," she muttered, thinking of Rachel's cap and the strong face below it. "Take it off, Molly."

"I suppose it doesn't suit you, does it, milady." Molly's double in the mirror sighed as the real woman did.

"Hardly." Chris watched the maid's image lift the cloth from the strange woman's head. The maid in the mirror walked out of the picture.

"I'll leave the lamp lit on your night-table, milady, and be up to dress you afore dawn. Do sleep well," the real Molly told her. Her footsteps creaked across the floor towards the door.

Chris rose and, heading for her bed, returned the goodnight wishes. "You sleep well too, Molly." The mattress sagged and creaked as she sat down.

"You know, it didn't suit your mother either," Molly said reflectively from the doorway. "She never wore such things. Goodnight, milady."

"Goodnight," Chris said as the door closed.

Once in bed, the blankets pulled up to her waist, Chris bent over to extinguish the lamp. Just before the flame died, she caught a glimpse of its reflection in the mirror, its last light flickering off the silver braid of Chris Lightfellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris Lightfellow, Zexen, Suikoden, etc are property of Konami. Used without their permission, because it seems kinda silly to write to them and ask their permission to write fanfiction. Molly and Rachel are property of me, and used with my permission.
> 
> Mad props as usual to my beta-readers Jyasu and Rienna, for extensive comments and heaps of Renaissance historical information from Rienna.


End file.
